The left bank is once, and the right bank is reality.

The key word of the fourth issue of Reader is gift. Dong Qing said: Looking up at the starry sky, the earth is a gift from the universe. Looking down, a flower and a leaf are gifts from nature to the world, children are gifts for parents, friends are gifts for companionship, and memories are gifts for time.

I want to say that youth is the best gift that life gives us!

Youth is a bright river, flowing from the most beautiful season. Or ups and downs, or thrilling.

After reading a passage, I said that there is a Seine in everyone's heart, which divides our hearts into two sides. The left bank is soft and the right bank is cold and hard. Left bank sensibility, right bank rationality. On the left bank live our desires, hopes, struggles and all our love, hate and anger, while on the right bank live the brand left in our hearts by the rules of this world. The left bank is a dream, and the right bank is life.

I want to say that youth lives on the left bank and lives hand in hand on the right bank.

In the long river of life, the left bank is the past, the flashy years and the blooming youth; The left bank is a beautiful past, and the banner of youth is hunting.

It is never clear where the memory of youth should start and when it will end. In the "black box" of memory, there are too many little things that can witness youth.

A maple leaf red bracelet, in order to witness the friendship with a girl for many years, a pearl necklace that was once extremely precious, a silver ring given by Juan in junior high school, and a wind chime given by Li, a deskmate for three years, are still fragile.

There are also some exquisite cards, bracelets made by myself, and a thick carton of books. When I was a child, I liked plush toys very much, and I could only accompany a little cloth rabbit. Up to now, I like to collect plush toys and fill the corners of cabinets.

Later, when I went out to school, I was worried and wrote a letter. By the time I graduated, I had saved a box full of letters with my pen pal and classmates. Those boys who left home for school, those boys who tried their best to hide in the dormitory when they couldn't do exercises in the morning, those boys who rushed downstairs with lunch boxes just after the bell rang in the last class, were obsessed with romance novels, the focus of literary evenings, the tall TV tower and the back of that mountain.

In the summer vacation, I worked in a small restaurant by the sea with my classmates. After work, I sat quietly by the sea at night, salty sea breeze and white waves, small gifts carefully prepared for my friends in the summer vacation, letters received at the beginning of school, and a thick stack of thoughts.

Those passers-by who inadvertently broke into my life, those paper cranes with brilliant thoughts folded up, that song called "The Sea", that book called "Thorn Birds", that diary dedicated to recording heartbeat, that Chinese rose flower that was picked for you and stuffed into the envelope, that night at the party on the last night of graduation, I heard your lazy voice calling for my graduation farewell platform on the third floor.

The warmth of the sunshine in that winter, the encounter in that strange city, the handsome guy who sent me to the station by bike, the girl who came home with a giant panda toy giggling, all the way with bubbles on her mind, and a seal engraved with her name, have been preserved until now, but none of the written postcards have been sent. At that time, there was no clear address, and I used to write it, but I couldn't mail it to you.

At that time, I accidentally lost a lot of things, those vague and clear memories, those old school photos, those odds and ends, those who loved and were in love, those moments that touched my heart, those people and things that I wanted to throw away, those who couldn't stop loving, those who let you forget, those stories that have been in my heart for a long time, those that I accidentally lost, and those that started over.

In the long river of life, the right bank is reality, insipid persistence and persistence, and the continuation of youth that never gives up. The love moored on the right bank is beautiful, warm, full of fireworks and real.

When I first saw your sunny and delicate face, I never thought that you and I would have such a long intersection in the future. There was no contact at all, but that day, at the registration office on the second floor, it was neither a second earlier nor a second later. The moment you turned around, you looked up and called out my name, and the story really began.

The day of going to the exam together, the long phone call, the hundreds of phone cards accumulated, the joy when you came to see me thousands of miles away, the lucky star that was folded in a week, the reluctance when you left that morning, and a person looking back and forth to see your persistence.

In those years when we worked hard together, a gardenia could smell a small house full of fragrance, and the river behind the house was a little shady and green. Those sultry summer nights loved to sit on the mat and listen to the tune of "Butterfly Lovers" played by you on the harmonica.

Those nights when we went to Internet cafes together, those National Day when we were poor but had a good time, those running-in days in the noise, those days when we loved and hated each other, and those beautiful days when we left.

That summer, PHS broke down because of sadness, chasing in the heavy rain, squatting in the middle of the road crying that night when I couldn't find myself, the biting cold in the early morning of that spring, the Spring Festival that I couldn't go back to spend with us, the snowstorm that was rare for decades, and the video of a snowman all over the street for me to see, all of which were moved by my thoughts.

Those days when we are thousands of miles apart, but we call each other to comfort each other every day, sometimes we don't care about your indifference because of our children's disagreement, those anxious days when we are too busy to go home early, those angry days when you are drunk and have been looking for the wrong house for a long time to bring you home, those people who don't want to lose their efforts in their studies, those days when they wait for me across the street and take me home together every day, and they have the satisfaction of their own small world and insist on working hard for the future!

Such quiet thinking, bit by bit, like a drizzle in the sky, bit by bit, are immersed in our lives. Silence, but always.

Those touching moments, those moments that I can't bear to let go, those moments that were touched by my heart, those moments that accompanied me to grow up, those inner persistence and persistence, those efforts to carry happiness to the end, those injuries that I have suffered, and those happiness that I endured together have finally become a part of my life that can be recalled and anchored on the right bank called reality.

Looking back at youth is only an occasional glimpse. We always worry too much, but we don't insist on it. Love and not love, love and hurt are all courage to live.

Left bank, past life, right bank, this life, love and deep love.

Youth whizzes by with it, and you can still hear the sound of the wind blowing!

The grass is sowing seeds, the wind is shaking leaves, who is still in the rivers and lakes, lamenting what youth used to be like!